On a Whisper of a Prayer
by obsessedwithstabler
Summary: In the end, it was Mycroft who made the call. And in the end, Sherlock decided his heart could belong to no one but John.


A tearjerker oneshot cowritten with Quadrophenia72. Major character deaths ahead. Grab your kleenex and read on at your own caution, and please remember to review!

Disclaimer: Not ours!

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In the end, it was Mycroft who made the call.

He had watched John fall apart after Sherlock's 'death' and he had remained silent through the tears and grieving process John seemed to be perpetually trapped in. He kept silent when John began to lose weight and stumble home drunk almost every night, and when John eventually lost his job Mycroft began paying John's bills, though he never admitted to it.

He didn't say anything as the seasons passed and John slowly learned how to live again with the gaping hole in his heart. He didn't say anything when John met a young woman named Mary and began building a life with her.

He didn't say anything when John started a new job and steadily became more slow and lethargic just a few months after beginning. He didn't say anything when the diagnosis came in and all treatment failed.

He didn't say anything when he visited John in the hospital, but when talk turned to palliative care, he knew he had to break his silence. So he stepped into the hall and dialed a number he was only supposed to use in dire emergencies.

After two rings, Sherlock answered. "Mycroft?"

"It's time to come home, Sherlock."

"What do you mean? I'm still in the process of capturing Moriarty's men."

"That doesn't matter now. John is dying."

There was a long silence on Sherlock's end of the phone call. "How?"

"Pancreatic cancer. He has a week left, at the most."

"I'm coming. Provide me with the fastest transportation."

"I'm sending a private aircraft. Be ready."

He disconnected the call with that thought weighing heavily on his mind.

Sherlock would never be ready for this.

* * *

The next morning, after much deliberation, Mary was allowed to take John home. He had spent most of his adult life in hospitals and he refused to die in one. So Mycroft arranged for him to be transported by a private ambulance to the home he shared with Mary.

Sherlock arrived that same evening. Having kept in contact most of the duration since the previous day, Mycroft was waiting for his brother outside of John and Mary's home. He maintained a stoic expression as Sherlock jumped out of the town car and sprinted up to him. "Sherlock."

"What happened?" Sherlock demanded breathlessly the moment he reached his elder brother.

"Exactly what I told you, brother." Mycroft's eyes were sad and sympathetic. "You should prepare yourself."

"I _am_ prepared," Sherlock insisted. "Take me to him."

"Very well." Mycroft guided Sherlock into the house and up to the bedroom where John had been settled.

Mary looked up the moment the door opened. Mycroft had told her what he was planning to do, and while she didn't approve of it, she found she didn't have much say in the matter. Besides, this wasn't for her. It was for John. She stood up and met them at the door. "He just woke up," she whispered as she laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes for the first time.

Sherlock didn't meet her stare. He was too busy taking in John's appearance. His best friend had lost an alarming amount of weight and he was pale except for the dark circles under his glassy eyes. Sherlock stood beside the bed. "John?"

John blinked slowly, his eyes eventually settling on the man in front of him. "Sherlock..." he breathed. "You...you're here..."

"Yeah. I'm here." Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed and laid his hand on the bed near John's head. "I'm here..."

Slowly John's hand came up and settled on Sherlock's chest. His eyes widened slightly in surprise. "How...?"

"I'm not sure explanations are necessary in this case," Sherlock said softly, resting his hand on top of John's.

"But...you're alive..." Tears slid down John's cheeks.

Mary started to step forward but Mycroft held her back.

"Let them be," he urged firmly.

Unaware of Mary's distress, John continued to stare at Sherlock tearfully.

"Yes, I am." Sherlock touched John's cheek. "Wonderful observation." He meant it to lighten the mood but his voice was devoid of any happiness and the smile he forced was broken and sad.

John leaned into the gentle touch and sighed, closing his eyes. "Don't leave again..."

"Never. I don't have anywhere else to be," Sherlock assured.

"Hmm..." John's breathing evened out and his grip loosened on Sherlock's hand.

Mary finally stepped around Mycroft and hurried to John's side. "John?" She pressed her hand to his forehead. He had just fallen asleep. Her shoulders slumped and new tears gathered in her eyes.

Mycroft approached the bed as well, hesitating before he laid his hand on his brother's shoulder.

There was no way this was going to end well.

* * *

When John awoke again, he was more coherent. Mary was sitting by him and he offered her a weary smile. "Hey..."

She lifted her head and smiled sadly. "Hey, yourself." Leaning over, she brushed her lips lightly against his forehead. "How do you feel?"

"A little better." His brow furrowed. "I had the strangest dream."

"You did?"

Sherlock was watching from the door way, debating ever whether or not he should join them.

"Mm hmm." He smiled wearily and watched Mary take his hand.

"What about?"

"An old friend."

Mary's brow furrowed as she stroked John's hand with her thumb. "John..."

Sherlock took a step closer. "John, I'm right here."

The older man froze. "Mary..."

"He's here, John." She reluctantly let go of John's hand and stood up, allowing Sherlock to slip into her place.

The bed dipped and John's breathing sped up noticeably.

"I'm really back," Sherlock murmured. He was hesitant as he covered John's hand with his own.

"It wasn't a dream..." John groaned as he weakly pushed himself into a sitting position.

"No, it wasn't." Sherlock adjusted the angle of the bed with the remote so that John could sit up more comfortingly.

John stared at him intently once he was semi-comfortable once more. "Then you know I'm dying."

"I'm aware." Sherlock managed to force a sad smile.

"You don't have to do that, Sherlock. I know you better." John extended his hand to his best friend, still reeling with disbelief.

"You really do, don't you?" Sherlock allowed the fake smile to leave his face.

John looked relieved when Sherlock finally took his hand. All barriers were gone as he tugged Sherlock's arm, catching the younger man off guard so that he launched forward and landed in John's arms. A wave of peace washed over John; he finally felt whole again as he hugged his best friend with all the strength he had remaining.

John's hold was weaker than Sherlock had expected but he suspected it was the most strength the man had exerted in a long time. He held still for a long moment, settling into John's arms. He returned the embrace, holding the shorter man tightly against his chest.

Closing his eyes, John tucked his face into Sherlock's shoulder and sighed tiredly. "I don't have much longer, Sherlock. A few days at best."

"I know," Sherlock mumbled into his ear as he tightened his arms around John's upper body.

John's arms weakly tightened around Sherlock. "I'm so glad you came."

"Me too." Sherlock's hand squeezed John's upper arm. He always knew he would come back one day but he never thought it would be under a circumstance even remotely similar to this situation.

Mary came back into the room a few minutes later with a bowl of soup. "John, do you think you can eat?"

John frowned and shook his head weakly.

"John, you should eat. If you want, I can sit here and stare at you while you eat like I used to," Sherlock urged.

"What's the point?" he murmured, reluctant to move his head from Sherlock's shoulder. "My body is shutting down. It doesn't need the nutrition."

Sherlock sighed. "I'd attempt to convince you otherwise but I'm not going to argue with you." He shifted on the bed so that he was beside John and draped a long arm around John's shoulders.

Mary flushed and sat down on the bed. "At least try, John," she pleaded.

He gave Mary a sad look. She was devastated and there was nothing he could do to make it better.

"You could try," Sherlock pushed. He dropped his voice to a whisper that only John could hear. "For me?"

"Manipulative bastard," John grumbled back. He held his hand out for the bowl and was relieved when Sherlock supported him.

"Of course I'm a manipulative bastard. I'm programmed to be that way." Sherlock supported John's trembling hand as the other man lifted a spoonful of the soul toward his mouth.

John obligingly swallowed a few spoonfuls of the soup before his stomach began to protest. He gently pushed Sherlock's hand away when he attempted another spoonful. "No more."

Sherlock set the bowl and spoon aside on the nightstand. "Better?"

He felt slightly worse and now he was nauseous, but he managed a smile for the man in front of him and nodded. "'m fine."

"I can't believe that. You're an open book, John," Sherlock murmured.

Mary collected the dishes and carried out of the room, feeling very much like an interloper.

John closed his eyes, absently gripping Sherlock's arm. "I'm scared, Sherlock," he whispered once Mary was gone. Only with Sherlock did he not feel the need to maintain this facade.

"You have every reason to be." Sherlock adjusted the blanket that laid over John.

"I thought I was ready." His thumb began moving slowly over Sherlock's arm. "I was going to ask Mycroft to...to bring the morphine...then you showed up..."

"I suppose my showing up is a good thing."

John chuckled hollowly. "A few extra days. I suppose Mary might appreciate it."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. He absently held John a little tighter and eyed the wedding band on John's left ring finger. He estimated that they had married less than a year ago, two years after his feigned suicide. He knew all along that John would move on eventually but he wouldn't have expected it to be so soon.

John didn't rebuff the renewed embrace. Instead he settled into it and slid his arm around Sherlock's neck. His mind was becoming fuzzy again and he knew sleep would overtake him again soon. He was torn; he wanted to fight what was happening, especially now that Sherlock was back and very much alive in his arms. At the same time, he was so very tired of being the good soldier and fighting so hard. This was one battle he wasn't going to win and he knew it. Now it was just a matter of how long his heart could keep going before it finally gave out.

When John fell asleep, Sherlock reassured himself when he felt the shorter man's warm breath against his neck. He closed his own eyes and leaned his head against John's, exhausted. Sleep did not come easily.

* * *

The following morning, to the surprise of everyone present, John got out of bed and joined them for breakfast. He was still weak but he ate some fresh fruit and participated in the conversation taking place. For a brief time, everyone returned to a sense of normalcy, but Sherlock knew better. After breakfast, Mary ushered John into the living room and helped him sit down. Then she turned to Sherlock.

"He's had days like this, but not in a while," she informed him quietly. She was no fool. Even though she knew John loved her and she loved him, a ghost haunted their relationship. Now the ghost was flesh and blood and standing in front of her.

Sherlock watched John as his best friend settled on the couch. "How long?"

"Since shortly after he was diagnosed and the first round of treatment failed." Mary crossed her arms and wiped at her eyes carefully. "He's talked about you a lot."

"Really?" Sherlock supposed he was only half surprised.

"Of course." She stepped closer to him. "He only has a couple of days. Please don't upset him by leaving again."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said firmly before turning to divert his attention to John.

"Good."

John looked up when Sherlock sat down beside him. "There you are..."

"Here I am." Sherlock perched on the couch beside him, hopping onto it as he would have done on the armchair in their flat.

Smiling tiredly, John closed his eyes briefly. "It's been a good morning," he mused.

Hearing the words directly out of John's mouth made Sherlock relieved for a moment before he realized the meaning with a sinking feeling. He was no doctor but he knew what the sudden peace meant. The final good moments before it all came to an end, the last rally. Calm before the storm.

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind but he couldn't delete the feeling. It remained firmly in the back of his mind. To distract himself, he refocused his attention on John. "I hope you didn't go on too many adventures without me."

"Just one or two." A shiver went through him and almost instantly Mary appeared with a blanket that was very familiar to Sherlock.

She draped the blanket over John and pulled it up to his chin. Then she kissed his cheek. "Comfortable, sweetheart?"

He cracked one eye open and smiled. "How could I not be with two of the most important people in my life here?"

Sherlock let out a low chuckle and lifted John's legs into his lap. "You and your sentimental tendencies."

"Of course." John curled into himself and absently smoothed his hand over Sherlock's quilt. When he had moved in with Mary, he had only taken the quilt, a scarf and Sherlock's violin. The rest had either been donated or left at the flat for Mycroft to maintain.

Mary leaned down and ran her hand over his head. "I'm going to go ring my mother, sweetheart. Have Sherlock come get me if you need anything."

John squeezed her arm affectionately and watched as she left. Once they were alone again, he let himself focus on Sherlock's hands as they rubbed his legs. He was having mild heart palpitations but they were nothing to worry Mary about.

"Things were pretty boring while I was gone, you know." Sherlock ran a hand over the quilt.

"Hmm...of course." His eyelids became heavy as he listened to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't know what else to do or what to talk about. He realized he had never spoken a word about his childhood. "Do you want to hear some stories?"

This caught John's attention. He looked up at Sherlock and smiled when the younger man took his hand. "Of course," he whispered.

"Alright... when I was eight years old, I took an experiment to school that the teacher found questionable. I still consider it a shame that she didn't appreciate my presentation of the effect heat has on frog organs. When I refused to stop my presentation, she tried to take it from me. I informed her that her husband was aware of the fact that she was cheating on him. I was sent to the office and they were unable to contact my parents on the phone because they were out of town."

John's smile widened. "What did you do?"

"Mycroft was still in school at the time so I gave them the number of an older friend. I believe you might know her. She lives in close proximity." He smiled slightly.

"Mrs. Hudson." He moved his free hand to rest over his heart. "You should...you should tell her you're okay. She's missed you almost as much as I have."

"Right. She retrieved me from the school and I promptly stored my experiment in her flower pot and forgot it there." Sherlock bit his lip. He wanted to visit her but he couldn't bring himself to leave John.

John sensed Sherlock's longing. "I'll ask Mary to ring her. I'm sure she'll come."

"Good. Very good." Sherlock gave John's hand a grateful squeeze. "What else do you want me to talk about?"

To Sherlock's surprise, John eased his legs from Sherlock's lap and shakily sat up. "I think I'd like to take a walk with you."

Sherlock didn't hesitate. He hooked his arm around John's waist for support. "Where do you want to go?"

"Doesn't matter." John rested his head on Sherlock's arm. He was filled with a sudden urgency; some deep, unconscious part of him knew this would be his last chance for such an outing.

Sherlock supported almost all of John's weight, alarmed when he realized how light he was. He helped John into a warm jumper and coat before he opened the door and stepped out into the October air with his best friend.

Suddenly he knew where to go.

* * *

When they arrived at 221B Baker Street, John wasn't all that surprised. He allowed Sherlock to take him out of the cab and lead him into the warm building.

The flat was clean but strangely empty when Sherlock unlocked the door and ushered John inside. John shivered in his coat and looked around. He had not set foot in the flat for several years, since he moved in with Mary.

Sherlock tossed his coat onto a chair, one of the few remaining pieces of furniture. "I missed this place."

"I missed it, too." John looked at Sherlock fondly. "And I missed you."

"I guess I missed you, too." Sherlock turned to face him. "I never thought I'd be gone so long."

"I'm glad you didn't come back sooner." If Sherlock had shown up when he was first diagnosed, he probably would have fought harder against his diagnosis.

"Really?" Sherlock eyed him curiously.

"Mm hmm." His legs protested at being upright for so long. "Need to sit down."

Sherlock eased John down onto the comfortable armchair. "Good?"

"Mm hmm." John reached out and grasped Sherlock's arm when he started to pull away. "Stay close," he murmured.

Sherlock sat on the arm of the chair. "I'll stay," he promised.

After a short while, John decided the arm wasn't close enough. Snaking his arm around Sherlock's waist, he tugged the younger man into his lap and smiled tiredly.

Sherlock was surprised when John suddenly pulled him down but he didn't resist the contact. He draped one arm around John's shoulders.

John let out a content sound when Sherlock shifted so that he was cradled in the younger man's arms. How long had he wished for this very moment? He pressed his head into Sherlock's chest and sighed softly.

"You alright?" Sherlock mumbled when he felt John sigh against his chest.

"Just...very tired," he replied honestly. He snuggled closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock picked up his long coat and draped it over John's body, tightening his hold around him. "How's that?"

John smiled sleepily and cherished the feel of Sherlock wrapped so firmly around him. "'s good."

"Good," Sherlock commented, absently running a hand over John's hair.

The older man was quiet for a long time. "I'm going to die, Sherlock," he finally said, his voice surprisingly strong and clear.

"Do you want to go back?" Sherlock asked reluctantly, his voice unusually quiet in comparison to John's.

John heaved a sigh and reached for Sherlock's hand, absently playing with his long fingers. "I've said goodbye to Mary. I don't..." His chest hitched as he thought of his sweet wife. "I don't want her to see this."

Understanding dawned on Sherlock. To his own selfish relief, he was okay with it. He didn't want his last moments with John to be spent with anyone else.

"Are you going to be okay with this?" His fading eyes searched Sherlock's face imploringly.

"Yeah... I'll be okay," he assured, looking into John's eyes.

He released a relieved sigh and squeezed Sherlock's fingers affectionately. Then he closed his eyes. "Think I'll take a nap now," he murmured, relaxing further into Sherlock's embrace.

Sherlock managed a nod, saddened when he felt how weak John's grip was. "Alright. Just rest," he urged gently.

"You'll stay, right?"

"Of course I'll stay."

Reassured by Sherlock's promise, John inhaled deeply and allowed sleep to steal over him.

Sherlock shifted in the chair so that they were both more comfortable. He let out a sigh and held John a little closer, determined to never let go.

* * *

Some time later, when the flat was dark and the sun was falling beyond the horizon, John jerked awake in Sherlock's arms. His eyes were wide and his chest heaved as his heart struggled to keep up with life's demands.

Sherlock looked down at him. "Hey."

"Sh-Sherlock," John choked out. His lips were blue and his head was swimming. "I don't want to die..."

Sherlock bit his lip. "I know you don't," he whispered, nestling John's head against his shoulder.

"I just... I just got you b-back..." He groaned softly and shifted, unable to hide the pain any longer.

Sherlock felt his chest tighten. He ran one hand down John's arm gently and adjusted the coat he had draped over him. The thought of what was happening was enough to make him regret ever leaving the man he held in his arms.

To Sherlock's surprise, John reached into his pocket and withdrew a syringe. His hands were shaking so badly that he was barely able to grasp it, but he did. "M-Morphine," he explained, blinking rapidly. "Take the p-pain away, slow my..." He groaned again and fought to finish his sentence. "...my heart an-and my breathing."

Sherlock took the syringe. His hand started to shake. He couldn't do this... One more look at the pained expression on John's face and the tears welling in his eyes were enough to tell him that he had to put him out of his pain. He rolled up John's sleeve and inserted the needle, never breaking eye contact as he pressed the plunger.

The results were almost instant as the morphine moved through John's veins. He relaxed in Sherlock's arms and his breathing slowed considerably. He was finally able to take a deep breath without his chest aching in protest. "Thank you," he murmured eventually.

Sherlock set the syringe aside and rested his chin on top of John's head, wrapping his arms around the other man again.

John began to feel sluggish and sleepy but he found he could speak more easily. "Listen to me, Sherlock," he murmured, knowing instinctively this would be the last time they spoke. "I've missed you more than words could say these past three years, and there is no one I would rather have here with me."

"I missed you, too," Sherlock mused, rubbing small circles on John's back. "Every day."

The thought made John smile. "There's one thing I'd like..." he breathed, his eyelids drooping.

"And what's that?"

He took a shallow breath. "A kiss...from the man who took my heart..."

Sherlock froze. He turned so that his face was inches from John's. "Are you sure?" He wasn't sure why he was asking and his voice lacked any trace of doubt.

John nodded, a small smile touching his lips.

Sherlock slipped an arm under John's back to support him as he pressed his mouth against John's, closing his eyes as he softened his lips.

John returned the kiss with all the strength he had left, lifting his hand and tangling his fingers in Sherlock's thick curls.

When Sherlock withdrew, John's eyes were barely open. He smiled at his best friend. "Amazing," he whispered, struggling to keep his eyes open for just a little longer.

The corners of Sherlock's lips turned up in a sad smile. "Fantastic."

John took a few moments to study Sherlock's face before his eyes closed. His breathing became steadily more shallow and he reflexively grasped Sherlock's hand.

"John?" Sherlock gripped John's hand tightly in one hand and supported his body with the other.

John's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. There was no longer any fear, only acceptance and the reassurance that came with lying in his best friend's arms and knowing no matter what, Sherlock wouldn't let him go. "Hmm...?"

Sherlock heaved a brief sigh of relief. He knew he was being illogical and that the final moments had dawned. He selfishly wanted to keep John alive and never say goodbye. It had been painful enough bidding goodbye when he faked his death and now that he was losing John he couldn't bring himself to form the words.

A weak smile formed on John's lips. "I love you, too," he breathed, slowly bringing their tangled hands to rest over his barely-beating heart.

"Mind reader," Sherlock accused lightly, squeezing John's fingers tightly in his hand. He managed to return the smile.

An incredible wave of peace washed over John. "Think I'm ready," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

"You can let go. You don't have to fight," Sherlock whispered back.

His free hand came up and rested lightly against Sherlock's cheek. Their tangled hands remained firmly on his chest and he felt strangely content. All of his senses faded except his ability to hear and feel, and the pain was completely gone for the first time since his diagnosis. "Sherlock..." The word was a prayer on his lips.

"I'm here, John," Sherlock spoke firmly, strengthening his grip on John's hand. "I'm not going anywhere."

John's hand fell from Sherlock's cheek and dropped limply to his side. He breathed shallowly as his features relaxed and his heart finally gave out beneath Sherlock's hand. His last breath left his lips in the form of his best friend's name. "Sherlock."

To hear his best friend say his last name one last time almost caused Sherlock to completely come undone. He shuddered and touched his fingers gently to the side of John's neck. He knew that there would be no pulse but that didn't stop him from burying his face in John's hair and shivering. "John..."

He held onto his best friend's limp body for the better part of a half hour before he gently moved John aside and stood from the chair. He rummaged through the living room until he found what he was looking for. His hand curled around the grip of the handgun and he rested a long finger on the trigger. He returned to the chair and sank slowly to his knees. He gave John's limp hand one last squeeze as he pressed the barrel of the gun to his chest and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Mary showed up at the flat a short time later, hoping she wouldn't be too late. She had been searching for Sherlock and John ever since she realized they were missing from her home and she couldn't believe Sherlock could be so selfish to take her dying husband away from his home. It was Greg Lestrade who gave her the idea to check here and she got the key from John's beloved friend, Mrs. Hudson.

She sensed something was wrong the moment she unlocked the door and stepped into the flat. The smell of rust hung heavily in the air as her eyes scanned the room and finally fell on the chair a few feet away. Her hand flew to her mouth as her brain slowly registered what her eyes were seeing.

John was curled up in the chair, looking for all the world like he was sleeping, but Mary knew he wasn't. Sherlock was kneeling on the floor, his upper body draped almost protectively over John. Their hands were linked together and John's jumper was stained with Sherlock's blood. She didn't need to touch him to know he was dead.

Slowly she pulled her phone from her pocket as tears welled in her eyes. Sherlock had spent John's last moments with him and then, rather than face a lifetime without him as Mary was going to have to do, he had taken his own life.

Greg answered a few moments later but it took Mary several seconds to respond. When she finally did, tears strained her voice.

"It's John, and Sherlock," she managed, unconsciously taking a step backward, away from the scene in front of her.

"They're dead."

_Finis._


End file.
